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"Chile! chile! yer kin make a fool of ole Bone, allays." She did not speak; her face, with its straight-lidded eyes, turned to the mountain beyond which lay the Tear-coat gully. A fair face under its blue hood, even though white with pain, an honorable face: the best a woman can know of pride and love in life spoke through it. "Mist' Dode," whined Ben, submissively, "what are yer goin' ter do?
"Where is he, Uncle Bone? where?" The old man understood all. "Gone dead, darlin'." holding her hand in his paw, tenderly. "Don't fret, chile! Down in de Tear-coat gully. Dead, chile, dead! Don't yer understan'?" "He is not dead," she said, quietly. "Open the gate," pulling at the broken hasp. "Fur de Lor's sake, Mist' Dode, come in 'n' bathe yer feet 'n' go to bed! Chile, yer crazy!"
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